


Another Kind of Needle

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knitting, Post-Season/Series 04, Prompt Fic, Season/Series 04, Sherlock Knitting, Watson's Woes, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Set during the events of S4:E2, The Lying Detective, and beyond; Mrs. Hudson teaches Sherlock to knit in order to pass the time.Written For The Prompt: "The prompt for July 8 is: Everyone Loves Sharing Their Expertise. All of us have something we've learned about or practiced a great deal. Whether it's knitting, or horseback-riding, or a particular performing group, use one of your own hobbies or interests as the inspiration for today's work. And don't forget to tell us what it is in the notes!"  -Watson's WoesJuly Writing Prompts





	Another Kind of Needle

**Author's Note:**

> I usually try to come up with another thing than those given as examples in the prompt, but (again) I was talking to a friend about it and joked about Mrs. Hudson 'forcing' Sherlock to learn to knit while he was lying about the flat being high and despondent in S4:E2. We giggled about it and then I realized I was going to have to write it. Danged enablers! * _wink/hug_ * BTW - I know the Watson's Woes comm is focused on the Watsons, but the prompt seemed to invite some wiggle room, so the POV character is Sherlock, but a lot of what he's doing is about John, so... hope it'll pass.

Mrs. Hudson was tidying again. She wasn’t making any attempt to be quiet and, in fact, seemed to be banging about a lot more than simple tidying required.

Sherlock moaned something meant to be ‘go away’ but even he couldn’t identify any syllable as what it was meant to be. If he opened his eyes, he wasn’t entirely sure his eyeballs wouldn’t explode in their sockets. Or his brain.

“You can lie there and shush,” Mrs. Hudson said in the tone she usually used when there were bullet-holes in the walls or bits of carpet had been burnt. “This place is a tip, young man. A rubbish heap! I thought it was bad before, but now… I hardly know where to start.” The next moment, despite all the years she’d been patient and kind to him, Mrs. Hudson showed that her true intent had always been to lull Sherlock into a false sense of security so she could murder him.

She turned on the hoover.

Shout-groaning in agony, Sherlock rolled over and fell off the sofa onto the floor. A moment later he’d managed to fumble his way to his feet and lurch toward his bedroom, hands still over his ears.

The unholy sound of the hoover stopped long enough for Mrs. Hudson to call after him, “Take a shower while you’re in there. You smell like some of the things I’ve had to remove from your fridge!” She immediately started up the hoover as soon as the last word left her mouth, so it was pointless trying to reply. Besides, Sherlock wasn’t sure he could speak in any of the half dozen languages in which he was fluent, let alone the language of his birth. His brain, brilliant and useful thing that it had always been, was pretty much offline. If he’d had even a bare minimum of functionality, he’d probably be able to remember why, but… no. Maybe a shower was a good idea, after all.

Some time later, clean and remarkably refreshed, though still feeling moderately bereft of mental function, Sherlock wandered out to find the sitting room ruthlessly tidied and a mug of tea still steaming on the coffee table next to a plate with a sandwich and a pickle. Sherlock’s mouth watered while his stomach rolled. It was a toss-up whether he was starving or nauseous, but five minutes after he sat down before the small feast, the mug was empty and he was nibbling the last of the pickle, slumped rather bonelessly on the sofa.

Sherlock woke from a doze to the sound of Mrs. Hudson plopping a satchel on the coffee table. Rubbing his eyes, he frowned up at her in silent query.

“Right, you clearly need something to occupy yourself,” she said in her most business-like voice. “Whatever’s going on with you and all… that…” She gestured in the general direction of the kitchen and the drug-related apparatus set up there. To her credit, she hadn’t done anything to it, as far as he could tell, but no one could have missed that she was quite unhappy about it.

“It’s necessary, but temporary,” Sherlock said, voice rough with disuse and dehydration. The tea had helped, but he needed more liquids and the taps were much too far away just then.

“Best be temporary,” she intoned, giving him a _look_ , but then going on as she opened the satchel. “I’m not asking, because you probably won’t tell me, but even I can tell you’ve got a purpose with this ugly business, rather than just getting high like the idiot you used to be.”

He scoffed, muttering, “Idiot,” with a fair approximation of indignation. The only time anyone ought to use that term should be John, and in the fondly chiding tone that did interesting things to Sherlock’s insides.

“Don’t even start that losing battle, young man,” Mrs. Hudson grumbled right back at him, holding out what looked like two enormous, plastic nails… or needles. Knitting needles. Before he could comment, she then produced a ball of thick yarn. “Now, you need something to occupy you while you’re…” this time she gestured at Sherlock, shaking her head on a sigh as she continued, “well, until whatever this is has run its course.”

“It’s not like I’ve got flu, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock rumbled as he examined the fat knitting needles—injection moulded plastic, solid rather than hollow, poor choice for a weapon, but doable in a pinch—and then the yarn. It was a mottled blend of mid- to dark-blues and greens, probably a blend of wool and acrylic, and it smelled faintly of holiday spices and pine. She’d stored it with her Christmas decorations for a time.

“Well, whatever it is, I don’t like it,” Mrs. Hudson said, bringing Sherlock’s attention partially back to her. “I know you’re intent on doing it, but just to be clear? I’m not keen.” She gave him a head tilted down, brows up, tight-lipped expression that painfully reminded Sherlock of John for a moment.

“Noted,” Sherlock murmured, offering the needles and yarn back to her as she eased herself down on the sofa next to him.

“Oh, no, those’re yours.” Leaning over, she took out a beige canvas bag with some sort of brightly-coloured logo silk screened onto one side, propping it open in her lap to reveal an unfinished knitting project in a blend of pastel colours. The in-progress project hung from two normal-sized knitting needles, one metallic pink and the other metallic purple. “This is mine. It’s going to be a blanket for John’s daughter.”

“Ah.” Sherlock sighed, glaring down at the things in his hands. “You’re not going to let up until I humour you, are you?”

“It’s like you know me,” Mrs. Hudson quipped, giving a breath of a chuckle before setting her own project down and plucking another pair of knitting needles and a ball of cobalt blue yarn out of the satchel. “Now, let me show you how to begin. You’re quite clever enough to master this in no time.”

“I’m not interested in learning to knit,” he told her, despite watching what she was doing with her own needles and ball of yarn.

“Nor was I, but my mum thought it would be of use to me and made me learn.” She waited for him to duplicate what she was doing before continuing, speaking while her fingers moved with surprising deftness, considering she had the beginnings of arthritis curving them a bit out of true. “I’ve been glad she did many times over the years. I’ve saved money on gifts, earned extra money on occasion, and—if I’m honest—kept myself sane more than once with my knitting.” She elbowed him gently. “So, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, hm?”

He just grunted, though he wasn’t ignoring her. Soon he’d managed a row of stitches, the colours of the yarn proving aesthetically pleasing as the knots—stitches—formed a more or less even row. Hers were far more uniform, just about perfect, and Sherlock started to see the artistry hidden in the simple actions of creatively knotting yarn. Until he dropped a few stitches and Mrs. Hudson made him unravel the faulty bits and redo them… who’d want to do this for hours on end? Ridiculous.

Wiggins showed up an hour later, by which time Sherlock had about four inches of mostly even knitted rows. The chunky yarn was rather pleasing to run through his fingers and the colours increasingly soothing to his eyes, as well as the oddly fascinating discipline of the process, though he’d admit nothing of the kind to Mrs. Hudson, the bully.

It had been almost restful for a while, to stop actively thinking about what he was trying to achieve, despite it making him feel so horrible, and why: Culverton Smith and John Watson, both making his life a torment for differing reasons. He had to entrap the one and in the process—hopefully—engage the other. Despite his very good plans and the much-desired results, Sherlock loathed this painfully disorienting and sick-making intermediary period. He had to look and act the part of the relapsed junkie while keeping to those plans and not doing so good a job as to actually overdose and die. It was a rather fine balancing act, really, and as good as he was at his part and Wiggins was at _his_ , things were skirting a bit closer to disaster than Sherlock preferred. But, well, needs must…

For the next few days, amongst all the other things Sherlock was setting in motion, as well as his carefully monitored drug use, the consulting detective let Mrs. Hudson continue to ‘force’ him to learn how to knit. He had no idea what he was making at first, but he’d definitely come to like how the colours were working out, and his competitive side kept him from giving up—if an ordinary person like Mrs. Hudson could do it, then a _bona fide_ genius should be able to, indeed, ‘master this in no time’. He pretended not to hear or see the satisfaction in Mrs. Hudson’s voice or expression, because it was bloody irritating, of course. Not because it made him feel warm inside in a way he hadn’t in far too long.

When Sherlock was ready to be publicly exposed as having gone back to drugs and appear as though he’d lost his mind, Mrs. Hudson was meant to have called the police, not pull out her old ‘mobster-wife’ skills and kidnap Sherlock at gunpoint. Worse, he could never have anticipated that she would then drive like a tardy Valkyrie speeding to Ragnarök with a keg of mead in the boot—instead of a disoriented and drugged consulting detective—and then have the audacity to pop open the boot to reveal a shocked and very displeased John Watson. He made a note to never, ever, ever underestimate that woman again. _Ever._

Still, after all the hubbub, when he was languishing in hospital with various injuries on top of withdrawal, Mrs. Hudson visited him every day. The first day she came by, he’d already started whingeing about boredom and planning to escape first chance he got. The second day she showed up with a familiar canvas bag, as well as a second of similar make—this one with the logo from a local arts and crafts shop—and set the new bag next to Sherlock on his hospital bed.

“I thought you’d have given up on that,” he said, voice too rough and too quiet.

“Pft, nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson dismissed as she produced a familiar pair of thick knitting needles and the mostly even patterns made of chunky blue and green yarn. “You’re not a quitter, any more than I am,” she told him with kind firmness. “Besides, I think these are the only kind of needles you need to be messing about with from now on, young man, don’t you?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and fidgeted with the things she’d all but shoved into his hands, wordless for several minutes. By the time he could look up with relatively dry eyes, Mrs. Hudson was sitting in the chair next to his bed with her own knitting project in-hand.

“Go on, then. I’ll correct you if you’ve forgotten anything,” she said encouragingly, but keeping her gaze on her own work.

“Okay,” he said, because there was nothing else he could say. The thing was, it actually helped make things a little easier to bear until he could go home again, and afterwards, as well.

Months later, after a great deal of dangerous trouble, unexpected murders, assorted familial strife, and several varieties of near-death experiences, John and Sherlock were friends again. Then John and his daughter moved into a repaired and renovated 221B. Things continued to get better, which was both a little surprising and a lot wonderful, and in the lulls that used to drive him a bit mad, Sherlock would slip down to Mrs. Hudson’s to take up his fat needles and chunky yarn. He would deny it vociferously, but Sherlock actually got to a point where he rather enjoyed sitting with Mrs. Hudson and watching ridiculous, crap telly while knitting away like they were both elderly retirees. She was actually rather kind about her victory, all things considered.

One particularly long night, when Sherlock and John had talked and talked well into the wee hours, while Rosie slept under a prettily knitted blanket upstairs in John’s room, Sherlock had the unexpected pleasure of draping a somewhat unevenly knitted, but very warm and cozy throw over a sleeping John Watson.

The blues and greens were somehow even more comforting to the eye, just like seeing John back where he belonged was comforting to Sherlock’s heart, and he was grateful for Mrs. Hudson and her insistence on teaching him to knit. With a smile, he left John to doze, and returned to his chair, thinking that perhaps he’d teach Rosie to knit one day.


End file.
